


There Are No Friends in Espionage

by flowersforzoe



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2019-10-20 16:03:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17625467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersforzoe/pseuds/flowersforzoe
Summary: Ian and Yassen are alive, John and Helen are too and Alex must force three adults with dark and bloody histories with one another to work together in order to save an important life. The future of the Western World hangs in the balance.





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Welcome to my BB Fic, "There Are No Friends In Espionage!" This is in no way finished, but I wanted to at least post what I have done. More chapters, just like my other fic "I Spy," will likely not be published until the summertime. Enjoy!

_Prologue_

**LOCATION: LONDON, ENGLAND**

"A German philosopher once wrote that he who fights monsters must take care that he doesn't become one himself. Our work is often monstrous. I'm afraid there's no escaping it." Mrs. Jones considered this and nodded. There was nothing more to say.

"Good-bye, Alan."

"Good-bye, Mrs. Jones."

Blunt took the shoe box and left the room, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Mrs. Jones sighed. It was the end of an era. Blunt had been the chief executive of the Special Operations Division of MI6 for years, and it would be good for the organization to have a new leader.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. The door opened, and Alan Blunt had returned to his former office.

"Alan?" She questioned, puzzled.

He noiselessly walked over to Mrs. Jones's new desk. In his hands was an unmarked envelope. He placed it on the desk without so much as a word. Looking his successor in the eyes, he nodded once, and walked out of the room, this time, never to return.

Mrs. Jones was confused. Alan Blunt had always been a man of few words, hesitant to explain himself, but this was strange, even for him. She picked up the envelope slowly as if it were rigged to blow. She opened it carefully, nervous about what it contained.

Inside, there was a bombshell. Not a physical one, but a bombshell of information. She looked up from the paper, overwhelmed. She took a deep breath, before filing it away. Its contents were to be dealt with at a later date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short prologues are short. Other chapters will be longer. Let me know you think, y'all!
> 
> [This is dedicated to the other Zoe, who helped with the writing and ideas for this fic. Love you, Bean!]


	2. Coming of Age

_Chapter 1: Coming of Age_

**One Year Later:**

**LOCATION: LONDON, ENGLAND**

Kensington Road is silent. Humid air stirs through the window, surprisingly still for the cold November nights. The sweet, rotting tang of leaves hangs in the air, the wind softly howling through the murky gutters and a tentative spray of rain peppering the slick tarmac. A 4x4 grumbles past a mossy drain, splashing muddy puddles up onto the blank pavements. The stars are hidden behind swathes of cloud; it seems as though it is always raining in London. A row of dignified, Victorian terraces stand facing one another, side by side, their curtained eyes shut tight, the whole street asleep for the night. One particular house, is still awake though, at least partially.

Inside of it, in a bedroom on the top floor, a lanky, blonde teen rolls over in a bleary, restless half sleep, squinting at his digital clock with sore, brown eyes. Its green digits light up the room, gleaming a pair of snake's eyes, casting a luminous, emerald glow over the bedroom and its bedraggled contents. Dark shadows wreath the bed covers in inky blackness; the teen shuts his eyes and listens to the steady pit-pat of the rain outside of his house.  _3:01am._  He smiles faintly to himself. It's the witching hour. Too early to be awake though. A lone vixen shrieks through the rumbling of distant traffic, separating the silence like a knife. The teen barely flinches, as he's certainly heard far worse things cry out in the dead of night during his lifetime. 3:02am. The neon glow flickers as the seconds change, catching a framed certificate upon the whitewashed wall with a glint.

_Certificate of Achievement_

_This certificate is to certify and commend Alex Rider, upon leading the Brookland Comprehensive Badminton Team to victory in the UK Finals._

_Signed: Mims Davies,_ _Minister for Sport and Civil Society_

The teen snuffles softly in his sleep; he has another certificate, from the Queen, commending him on his many acts of heroism on behalf of her Majesty's Secret Service. That one is shoved under the bed though, in a dusty old box that had been swallowed up by dirty washing and comic books, because this teen, Alex Rider, is a perfectly normal, ordinary, and completely unmemorable 16-year-old. At least, that's what he's told himself. No more MI6 for him now, not since the Grimaldi incident just over a year ago. That was it. No more missions, no more hurt, pain, betrayal, life-threatening situations or manipulative government bodies. He'd seen too many agents turned into puppets to ever let himself become one now.

It was time to move on.

"Good morning, sleepyhead."

"Morning, Jack."

"How'd you sleep?" Alex pads into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and yawning lazily.

"Okay, I guess. Woke up at 3 though, again."

A slight, attractive young woman stood at the kitchen counter, smiling at the teen through ginger bangs, her freckled, boyish face filling with laughter lines. "I told you to stop looking at your clock when you wake up in the night, or your body will get used to waking up at that time."

Alex lowers his hands, looking at her with a smirk. "And since when do I ever do as I'm told, Jack?"

The woman, Alex's housekeeper and closest friend of over 10 years, Jack Starbright, shakes her head, pouring boiling water from the kettle into two mugs. "Tea?"

"Yes please."

"Two sugars?"

"Three?"

"Wow, you did sleep badly last night." Alex hops onto one of the seats at the breakfast counter, rolling his brown eyes and resting his elbows cheekily upon the side.

"Not that badly! I'm just craving sugar right now."

Jack takes the tea bags out of the mugs, flicking her soft, red hair towards their fridge on her right. "Eat something then, silly. You need your carbohydrates." Alex reaches for his tea, smiling gratefully at Jack.

"Thanks. And I know. Believe me, I know. They won't stop drilling that into me in P.E."

"That's because it's important!" Alex chuckles and blows softly upon the hot beverage, watching the steam swirling up from it thoughtfully.

"Have you done your homework?"

He nods, gaze flicking up to Jack's. Alex is currently sitting his A-Levels; he chose P.E., English Literature and French. Homework had become quite the burden upon the teen, but he was happier than ever, a strange juxtaposition with most of his schoolmates. His best friend Tom, for example, was 'losing the will to live' with every passing day, or as he so dramatically put it. The way Alex saw it though, anatomy studies was wildly better than being shot at constantly. Jack was happy too, that he was home, safe and sound, and had been for the longest period of time since Ian Rider had died.

She was so proud of him that he had passed his GCSE's, despite only having been in school for little more than 14 weeks in a year; she had sobbed everywhere on his results day, and Tom had smacked him, whilst grinning his face off, yelling that it was 'unfair that he still aced everything despite learning nothing.' He had learnt stuff though! At least Mrs. Jones had been thoughtful enough to hire several tutors for him, and thankfully, Alex was a very fast learner. Along with A-Levels, he was competing in Brookland's Badminton after-school club and had made new friends that way, becoming something of a legend when he had beat even the best teachers at the sport on occasion.

Jack places a plate of buttered crumpets in front of him, before skirting the counter and sitting up on the chair beside him, pulling a book and a bowl of cereal towards her. "Enjoy." Alex leans his head on her shoulder, then straightens up and picks up a crumpet, pretending to toast it to her.

"Thanks, Jack. Happy Sunday." Jack giggles, doing the same with her cereal spoon in return.

"Happy Sunday, Alex." A few minutes later, and Alex is finishing off his first crumpet, butter dripping onto his plate, as he and Jack munch in companionable silence together. From the porch, comes the muffled sound of letters being pushed through the door. Alex wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, then gets down from the chair and pads to the front door. He leans down, the doormat prickling his bare feet, as he picks up the morning's mail. He feeds the letters and leaflets through his fingers, studying them in detached detail. Miss Starbright. Miss Starbright. Pizzas, 10% off! Christmas is coming soon, get your gifts now, at .uk! Miss Starbright. Alex Rider. Amazon Voucher code- wait.

Alex stares at the letter, eyebrow raised. He thinks it may be a bank statement, but then he realizes it has a handwritten address on it. His stomach twists. He rarely gets mail, and the only person who handwrites his mail is Sabina. This isn't Sab's handwriting… "Jaaaaaack!" He turns and jogs back into the kitchen area, looking up at Jack, who now has her eyebrow raised, mid-spoonful of Coco Pops.

"Yes?" Alex stands beside her, flicking the letters onto the counter before her.

"You, you, you, rubbish, you, rubbish...me."

Jack smiles quizzically. "Yes, Alex, that's called a letter. It's for you - you know how that works, right?" Alex rolls his eyes, then picks up his letter and shows it to Jack.

"Yeah, but who sent it to me?"

Jack looks at it skeptically, then shrugs. "Maybe it's a friend of Sab's? I'm not psychic Alex, just open it for god's sake." Alex purses his lips, forcing his paranoia and suspicion hackles from his time in espionage to lie flat, before tearing open the letter with his forefinger and thumb.

He hops up beside Jack again, and they both lean over to read it, Jack resting her chin upon his firm shoulder as they did so. They both finish reading it at the same time and then look at each other as one. Jack's bemused expression has now changed to one of cold grimness. "No."

"Yeah, but-"

"No, Alex! And I mean it this time! That horrible Jones woman is trying to drag you back into all this mess again, and I refuse to let it happen. We've had enough near-death experiences to last us a thousand lifetimes, Rider!" Alex blinks; Jack never uses his surname unless she's completely serious, and he hasn't heard her use it since she used to speak to his uncle, Ian Rider.

"I know, Jack." The teen said, quietly. "But, remember what I told you she said to me after we saved those kids from the Grimaldi twins… She said I would have a choice in any missions they briefed me on in the future." Alex waves the letter in front of both them, scanning the typewriter print intently. "And on here, it says they're calling me in for something extremely important and momentous. A coming of age thing, they say. Apparently, 16 is the magic number, here. It might not even be a mission!"

Jack glares at him. "Remember what Jones said about getting addicted to danger, Alex?" He sighs heavily, tossing the slip of paper aside.

"I know, I know. But, this doesn't look dangerous. It looks...interesting." He swivels round on his chair and looks Jack in the eye, letting his shoulders droop and gazing at her imploringly from beneath his slim brows and blonde fringe. She raises her eyebrow, green eyes glimmering, unamused.

"Don't you try that puppy-dog look on me, mister. It's not gonna work!" A few moments pass, then she too sighs, looking at him tiredly. "You're not gonna let this go, are you?"

Alex frowns, straightening up. "Why should I?! They've never sent me a letter before! This is new...and intriguing, right? No mentions of a mission, just a request. They're  _requesting_  to see me, Jack. That's never happened before! They're at least keeping their word…" He pulls a thoughtful face, frowning at the granite countertop. "Can I go, if you come with me?" Jack gently pushes him on the chair, snorting as she does so.

"Like hell, I'd ever let you go there without me, Alex."

"They said, come ASAP." Jack nods wearily, knowing that she'd already lost this argument with the strong-headed teen as soon as they'd read the letter earlier. "Yes, so, go shower and get your act together. We'll be there. But, promise me you won't go gallivanting off on any more missions for these psychopaths! Whatever they say, I will never, ever trust them with you, never again."

Alex smiles softly, then leans forward and hugs her tightly. "I promise Jack. I'd rather stick pins in my eyes than go on another mission for them. I'm done with them! Even if they think they're not done with me…" Jack hugs him back just as tight, resting her chin on his shoulder.

"Good. That's the way it should be. Remember, Alex, it's time to move on, don't let them drag you back into that hell again."

"I won't Jack. Believe me, I won't."


	3. Sheer Fucking Boredom

_Chapter 2: Sheer Fucking Boredom_

**One Week Earlier…**

**LOCATION: POINT NEMO**

I'm making breakfast when my wife comes into the kitchen, looking a mix of confused and downright terrified. I discreetly scan the room, searching for anything abnormal, but the only thing out of place is the envelope in her hands.

"Honey, what's wrong?" I ask her, growing slightly concerned. However, I don't let it show. I don't want to worry her even more.

She looks me in the eyes as though I am stupid. "We've got mail.  _Mail._  We haven't received mail since-"

"Oh, shit!" I exclaim, cutting her off. This isn't good. Knowing my luck and my history, it'll probably blow us up, or give us anthrax, or something.

"Again, we don't get mail. I found it at the bottom of the supply crate. What could this be? Only one person knows who and where we are, and they wouldn't send us anything...Would they?" Her voice fades out.

I sigh at my wife's naїvety. I know full well that the one man who knows the truth would  _absolutely_  send us something if it suited him. "I really don't know, Dear, I'm not about to analyze my former boss's thought process."

"Yeah, he was always kind of fucked in the head." This makes me laugh. My wife and my boss had never gotten along. "What do you think the letter says, anyway?"

I shrug, "Only one way to find out." I'm honestly not that concerned about the letter's contents. Even if it does kill me, I've been on this boring goddamn island for over a decade, and death may honestly be an improvement. I miss the thrill of my old life. The excitement, the passion, the adventure, even the danger. I respect the boring, safe monotony of the island, but lately, I've really been missing the action and excitement of my former life. I love my wife, I really do, but she's basically my only human contact anymore. We get a shipment of things from the mainland once a month from a trusted source, but it's not like we ever have much to talk about. He hands me a crate full of newspapers, food, water, and other necessities, and takes back the crate from last month, which was full of the trash from the previous shipment. Then, he gets in his helicopter and leaves. It's the same routine every month, and it hasn't changed in over a decade. It's nice not to have to watch my back constantly, but still, there's something about the calming waves and cold sun that really make me miss the uncertainty of my old life. I don't particularly want to die, but I also don't to live a life that is this fucking boring. I get that this is the safest option for my wife and me, but that doesn't make it any more interesting.

"You're really going to open it?" My wife questions.

"Boss must've sent it. There's no way he would've given us this crate without checking it himself. I'm sure it'll be fine." I fail to tell her my real reason for opening this letter: sheer fucking boredom. In my old life, I  _never_  would have opened the mail, but things have changed. We aren't in a constant state of danger and unrest anymore. I know my wife is perfectly content with our life here because she appreciates the relative safety of the island. It was her idea to stay here in the first place. This was supposed to be a temporary stint. We were only supposed to stay until things cooled down, and then move to Canada after getting extensive plastic surgery, but she wanted to stay here because it was safer.  _Ugh_. Safety is relative, anyway. We're really no safer here than in any other place. Either one of us could just drop dead at any second, whether we live in Point Nemo, Canada, France, or anywhere else. I mean-

"Aren't you going to open it?" My wife urges, impatiently, interrupting my thoughts.

I nod. "Of course I am, babe." I begin opening the letter. Inside is a piece of paper and a cellular phone. Once I read its contents, my jaw drops. I am not easily surprised: If there's anything my old life taught me, it's to never be surprised by anything. Or, any _one_  for that matter. "Bloody hell," I whisper. My wife grabs the letter from my frozen hands.

"What do they mean, he's  _gone_?" She exclaims, "They want you to go  _back_?! There is no fucking way that-"

"There is no fucking way that I'm not going," I complete the thought for her. This is my one chance to get out of this hellhole, and by God, I'm taking it. "You can stay, honey, but I'm going. I'll be back, don't worry. And I'll call, I promise. I think that we can both agree that if there's one thing I'm good at, it's not dying," I joke, trying to lighten the mood. We both know that if I leave our little island-bubble for my former employers, there's a decent chance I'll return in a body bag.

I sigh and pick up the phone. I dial the number that is scrawled on the letter, and tell the woman on the other end I've made up my mind:  _I'm going home._

Three days later, after I've packed for an indefinite amount of time, a boat arrives. There are a captain and a three-person crew, and they hand me a note, proving they are who my contact said they would be. I accept this and jog back into our cottage to say goodbye to my wife.

"Honey, are you  _sure_  you don't want to come with? I'd feel a lot better if we weren't apart."

She smiles, sadly. "I know, but I feel much safer here. You go, though. I'm not naїve enough to try to stop you," It's as she says that when I realize that she  _knows_. She knows I need this trip to keep my sanity. She knows I'm bloody bored and restless on this goddamn island. I feel a rush of love and caring for her. I lean over and kiss her on the lips. It's not an easy feat, as my 6'1 towers over her petite figure, but the two of us make it work.

"I love you."

"I love you too. Have fun, and do try to stay safe! And please bring me back pictures."

I smirk. It's been a while since I've truly smiled, and God, does it feel good. It looks good on me too, or so I've been told by many women over the years.

I walk onto the boat, suitcase in tow, and wave goodbye as the boat pulls away from the shore.

* * *

**LOCATION: MOTU NUI, CHILE**

It takes another three days to get to land. However, the three straight days of pure ocean and anticipation are the most thrilling I've had in years.

When we finally reach land, it's a little island called Motu Nui, which is just Southwest of the Easter Islands. It's so close to one island named Isla de Pascua that you can swim, and while I am tempted, I have a plane to catch, so I just climb off the large boat that took me from Point Nemo, and onto a smaller one.

* * *

**LOCATION: ISLA DE PASCUA, CHILE**

It's a 15-minute drive to the airport. The rugged mountains and cliffs are extraordinary. I may be a little biased, after seeing nothing but the same island for 16 years, but the scenery of Isla de Pascua is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. We, myself and a driver, are in a jeep with the doors off, and the wind is whipping through my hair. The air tastes like freedom, and these 15 minutes were the best I've had in far too long.

* * *

**LOCATION: SANTIAGO, CHILE**

Soon, I'm on a small plane, and just under six hours later, I'm in Santiago, Chile. I board another plane, this time a huge international jet, and I'm off, flying across the Atlantic.

* * *

**LOCATION: LONDON, ENGLAND**

16 hours later, I'm standing outside of a building I thought I'd never see again, shivering in the cold, rainy air of a place I thought I'd never return to. I have just gotten off my plane at Heathrow, and I'm standing on the curb, searching for my ride. I inhale the cold, rainy November air. It smells like home.

I see a short red-haired man wearing a black suit holding a sign with my name on it. Well, not my name, as my true identity could be potentially dangerous to display to the world, but a previously agreed upon name by my former employer and I. I look around, checking that the scene is safe, and I walk over to him. I hand him the letter my wife and I were sent, to prove my identity, and he accepts it, letting me into his car.

The drive to Liverpool Street takes about an hour, due to traffic, but I don't mind. It's wonderful to be home. Before my wife and I were forced to move to Point Nemo, I had lived in London for my entire life. Until I returned, I hadn't realized how much I'd truly missed it. I left an entire life behind-a job, family members, coworkers, and thousands of memories-when I moved to Point Nemo. The only remnants of my old life were two suitcases full of belongings, and of course my beautiful wife.

I step out of the car, which is discreetly, though heavily, armoured, and onto the sidewalk. On the sidewalk is a strange discoloration that takes away my focus for a few seconds. I'm curious as to what had caused it. The building a few meters away looms over me ominously. I take a deep breath before diving headfirst back into my old life.

I take an elevator up to the 17th floor of a building I know well: The Royal and General Bank. It has hardly changed a bit since the last time I was here, over 16 years ago. The only thing that appears different is the nameplate outside of the boss's office. I knock on the door and open it before getting a response. It's basically SOP at MI6 if you're of rank. Across the dull, sparsely-furnished room sits a black woman with shoulder-length dark hair and small beady eyes. She's wearing a black pantsuit with a silver dagger-shaped pin on the brooch. The air reeked of peppermint.

"Hello, Tulip. It's been ages," I greet the new chief executive of the Special Operations Division of MI6. I've only worked with her once before, and it was years ago, so I don't know her particularly well.

"I'm so glad you could come," she says emotionlessly, shifting what is presumably a peppermint to the other side of her mouth, "Do take a seat. The other man should be here soon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An ungodly amount of research was done trying to figure out distances from Point Nemo to London.
> 
> Also, nobody actually lives on Point Nemo, it just serves as a nice little plot point/home for our boi and his wife to hide out on for decades.
> 
> Any predictions? This was a pretty vague chapter haha. More chapters to come very soon.


	4. Curiosity Killed the… Car?

_Chapter 3: Curiosity Killed the… Car?_

**LOCATION: LONDON, ENGLAND**

_Smart. Well dressed. Short nails. Bites them, anxious perhaps, or stressful work environment? Greasy hairline. Wedding ring. Wonky teeth...oh, he's looking._

Alex ducks his head away, his body swaying back and forth with the motion of the underground carriage; the man he was studying glances at him, then back at the floor, a morose look upon his thin face. Alex is playing a deduction game on the tube, making his way from South Kensington to Liverpool Street; his stomach is a wild, wriggling mass of dread and anxious worms, his mouth pulled down at the corners in grim determination. He has no idea what MI6 want with him now, but he's too curious not to find out. Goddamnit, curiosity always killed the cat and has nearly killed him more times than he can count. The train whines and screams through the pitch blackness of the tunnel, wheels clicking and clunking on their metal rails, the occupants swaying in tense silence. Nobody talks on the tube. Nobody looks at one another. It's like some weird, unspoken rule. However, there's no rule against secretly studying people near you during the journeys. Alex likes to practise his observation skills regularly, and this is a good place to do it.

He waits for the man to turn around again before deducing again. There is a discoloration on his left dress shoe. Kids, maybe? A dog? Alex wonders what people on the tube would think of him. Whenever he took public transportation, which wasn't often, due to Mrs. Jones's and Jack's constant lecturing about its safety, he tried to be a discreet and unreadable as possible. Despite his beliefs that the lectures are superfluous, as he  _is_  Alex Rider, after all, he doesn't want to be accidentally recognized. That would be a nightmare. Alex is so busy imagining dodging assassins on the train, that he almost misses his stop and has to dive out the doors.

He lands in a heap on the floor, grateful that he wasn't carrying anything heavy enough to crush him. He stands up slowly, brushing himself off. There was dirt and, for some reason, gravel in his hair and on his once pristine clothes.  _Sorry, Jack_ , he internally apologizes about his now dirty outfit of washed-out jeans and a black Adidas hoodie and curses his lack of awareness.

"You good, Bruv?" someone asks him. Alex looks up. It's another boy about his age. He's taller than Alex, with dark brown hair and bland brown eyes filled with concern.

"Yeah, I'm good," Alex says, now noticing his suspiciously large backpack.

"I'm Aldous," the taller boy introduces himself.

"Alex," Alex replies, just as vague.

"What the hell was that?" Aldous questions, referring to Alex's casual dive out of the train.

"T'wasn't paying attention," Alex admits smoothly, "Guess I got caught in my train of thought."

Aldous snickers. "You're funny. I like you. C'mon, mate, follow me. I need your help with something."

Following this strange teenager out of the tube station went against every fiber of Alex's being. It was probably a death trap. Aldous seems awfully shifty. Alex or some other unlucky soul would probably end up dead. But then again…

"Alright. Where are we going?" Alex questioned, following the boy. He knows he will be late to Jones's meeting. He also knows that he doesn't give a flying fuck.

When the two teenagers had finally reached the sunlight, they turned in the opposite direction of the Royal and General. Whatever crime they were probably going to commit, at least it wouldn't be against the government agency that he "works" for. All Jones needs is  _more_  dirt on him.

"So," Aldous begins, "How much do you value the law?"

"Excuse me?" Alex asks, confused.

"Would you say," Aldous draws the sentence out, "That it's okay to break laws? Y'know, when the circumstance is right?"

"What're we going to do, murder someone?" Alex chuckles, on edge. While he appears cool and collected on the outside, he was instantly suspicious.

"No, Bruv, nothing like that," Aldous assures him, "Though I rather like that your mind goes straight to murder when I discuss breaking the law."

Alex laughs, and this time it's genuine: "Who hasn't broken a couple of laws?" He asks, internally cackling at how extreme his 'couple' of broken laws were.

"Boring, boring people," Aldous assures him.

"So, what laws are we breaking, anyway?" Alex wonders, preparing himself.

"Property damage; vandalism, probably; something about explosives-Oh! Is it a crime to break into other people's cars and drive them out of danger?"

"Most likely," Alex laughs.

"Great. Anyways, we need to blow up this prick's car. Not with him in it. We don't want to hurt anyone, just his precious car. He fucked my girl", Aldous clarifies.

"We're vigilantes, then," Alex realizes, for some reason much more comfortable with the situation.

"That's it, Bruv! So, can you break into cars?"

"Hell yes," Alex says, remembering his eleventh birthday when Ian had taught him.

"Great. You move any surrounding cars-we don't want to punish anyone else-and I'll rig the explosives." Alex nods, and they walk the last three blocks in silence.

When they arrive, in the parking lot of, ironically, another bank, the two self-declared vigilantes begin enacting their grand plan. Alex breaks into the surrounding seven cars, while Aldous begins rigging the car-of-interest with a very obviously homemade bomb.

When Alex finishes, he walks over to Aldous, who is standing over the car he had wired. It was an Audi A3.

"It's a real shame we have to hurt his car. It's a real beauty," Aldous reflects, stroking its hood.

"He probably screwed your girl in it," Alex adds helpfully, "It's exactly the type of car a small-dicked prick would have. To boost his ego, Y'know."

Aldous laughs and punches Alex in the shoulder. "You're a good mate. C'mon, I'll set the timer for sixty seconds, and then we run like hell."

A minute later, the two teenagers are 10 meters away, using the corner of the bank as a cover, and watching the Audi blow up. It's a much bigger explosion than either one expected, and a piece of burning car singes Alex's bangs and burns a hole in Aldous's shirt. Neither of the two care, however, as they are laughing so hard that tears are streaming down their faces.

"His car!" Aldous exclaims, choking on his laughter, "It just got fucking demolished! The bitch just blew the fuck up!"

Alex, head in his hands, his eyes blurred with tears formed out of laughter returns "Don't call the car a bitch, she never hurt anyone!" with mock-horror. Aldous is about to respond when sirens ring out. "RUN!" Alex yells, and the two of them duck into the nearest alleyway. They sprint until they get to the Royal and General, where, luckily, the sirens are nowhere to be heard. "This is me," Alex explains, "Bye, Aldous, I had fun today."

"Any time, Bruv," Aldous pants, still not recovered from their sprint, "Here, catch," he says, tossing his phone to Alex. "Put your number in. I'll text you next time I need to commit a crime."

"Right on," Alex replies, punching in his number, "See you around." The partners-in-crime nod goodbye, and go their separate ways.

When Alex walks into the Royal and General Bank, careful to mind the sidewalk discoloration where he got shot and is suddenly very self-conscious. With his soot-covered outfit and singed bangs, he is laughably out of place at a high-end bank. Nervous that someone will think he's a terrorist and call the police, he moves quickly to the security guard, who takes him to Jones' office, thankfully without questioning his unusual appearance.

He takes a deep breath, nervous for the first time about whatever the fuck Jones thought 'Coming of Age' was. Another mission, probably. The thought gives Alex a headache. Putting on his usual faςade of almost annoying arrogance and strong charisma, he bursts into the office. He is shocked when he realizes that he and Jones are not alone in the room. Who the fuck…?

Realization dawns upon Alex when the man turns in his chair to face him. It's not who he expected, nor who he wanted.

Alex greets the man, frozen in his tracks: "Well hello there, Hunter,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to Tess, Pogs, Anch, and Lacie for help choosing the bf's car! I love that I have people I can count on to find vehicles for 'your typical small-dicked asshole who wants to make up for it with a nice car.'


	5. These Bloody Spies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really need to stop getting my heart broken over literature. Reading it. Writing it. Books are, to me, like that one ex who keeps on hurting you, but you just can't leave them because you love them so damn much.

_Chapter 4: These Bloody Spies_

**LOCATION: LONDON, ENGLAND**

"Well hello there, Hunter," The boy says as he saunters into the room with Tulip and I. His clothing is dirty, and he smells like smoke. He walks with an unnatural cat-like grace that reflects the walk of every top assassin, including myself, whom I've ever met, and sits down next to me noiselessly. He has long, shaggy fair hair, which reminds me of Helen's, covering his medium brown eyes. He's tall, and looks a hell of a lot like Ian, "So, Scorpia, huh Dad? Me too," he says with a smirk.

It takes me a second too long to process this; I guess I'm really out of practice. Dad? Wait. "Alex?" I ask. Could this really be my son? He looks so different from the last time I saw him. Admittedly, that was 16 years ago, and he was only 3 months old then, but still.

"Yes, Hunter, great observational skills," He says sarcastically, "They did always say that you were a brilliant spy." His quick quips and sarcasm almost rival my own. I open my mouth to snark back, but Alex beats me to it: "So, Hunter, what brings you back to the land of the living? Honestly, you and Mum being dead was the one consistency in my life, and now, even that's gone to hell."

I ignore his rude remark. "We were hiding, Alex, ever heard the saying 'Scorpia never forgive, and-"

"-Scorpia never forget," Alex finishes the phrase with me. I've spent about three minutes with this kid in over fifteen years, and Scorpia has already been mentioned thrice. Any doubts I previously had were completely gone: Alex is definitely, undeniably, a Rider.

"Anyways, Alex, after I'd betrayed them, there was an assassination attempt involving a bomb on a plane. Your mother and I barely escaped, and so we went into hiding. It was only supposed to be temporary, but Helen didn't want to leave the safety."

Alex nods, before breaking out into a smirk. "You'd never have to worry about me doing that, Hunter. Danger laughs in the face of Alex Rider." I sit there puzzled, wondering what kinds of danger a sixteen-year old could possibly have faced. Then again, he has mentioned Scorpia. Presumably, he's just heard the name in passing from Jones when she told him about me. Speaking of Jones, the chief executive coughs, likely to cover up a laugh. Again, this confuses me, as an MI6 agent, especially one of such a high position, showing emotion is about as likely as my son facing any real danger. Christ, he's just a boy.(1)

"Please don't call me 'Hunter,' Alex, that was my Scorpia name. I'd prefer 'Dad.'"

There is a gleam of something in Alex's eyes that quickly disappears. Anger? Regret? "Yeah, Hunter, we aren't exactly on those terms. Even Ian was a better father to me than you ever were. Hell, Alan Blunt was more of a father than you. So, I will stick to calling you 'Hunter.' I think it more accurately suits our relationship." The kid has a point, but his words hurt. It's illogical, I know, but it makes me feel shitty to hear that my inferior, younger brother and Alan Fucking Blunt were closer to my kid than I ever was.

"That's hardly my fault, Alex, it was an impossible situation. Utterly unwinnable. If we had come back for you, Scorpia would have known we were still alive and came after all three of us. If we left you with Ian, we'd miss your childhood, and you wouldn't get to meet your parents. There was no winning. In the end, I chose our lives over our family, and it's a decision I stand by," I protest, trying to defend my honor and my choice.

"It's a Catch-22, Yossarian," Alex mocks with a frown. Up until this point, all of his quips and sass had been lighthearted enough. Now, however, that has changed, and all that's left is resentment. I didn't want to hurt my son with my choice. The little bastard should be grateful that my choice kept him alive and far away from danger. Imagine if my son would have needed to stay on the run and live completely off the grid to stay away from Scorpia. His perfect little life would have changed to one of sorrow, loss, murder, and death. He should be grateful that because of my sacrifice, he's loved a relatively calm, happy and peaceful life.

Tulip but in, her voice slicing through the awkwardness like a dagger. "So, Alex, Agent Rider, I have a proposition for you." Alex rolls his eyes, and slumps into his seat. The level of his sheer disrespect astounds me. This was the bloody head of MI6! Does Alex even know who he's talking to?

Before I can mention this to him, he speaks in a slow, almost comically enunciated drawl: "I wonder where I've heard that one before. You know, Tulip, every time you open your mouth it means trouble for me. Can't you just make Bloody Hunter the Patriotic Prick do your bidding? I have literally anywhere else to be right now."

Anger rises up inside me. I cannot believe that my son is speaking to Mrs. Jones which such as obvious lack of decorum. Also, that was an incredibly rude nickname for me. The little brat shows no respect. I am about to bring this up, but to my surprise, Tulip just laughs. The sound knocks me off guard, as I'd bet my ass that laughter was something that has never before occurred in this office.

"Please, Alex just hear me out. This isn't like the previous times. You are allowed to leave at anytime, I'm just asking you to listen to what I have to say first." My son nods submissively, and his and Tulip interaction only serves to further confuse the hell out of me. These two clearly have a history, though I have no idea to what extent. "Anyways," Tulip continues, "Does the name Menna Rawlings mean anything to the two of you?" Alex and I shake our heads. Tulip sighs. "Agent Rider, that's unsurprising as you've been AWOL for a decade-and-a-half, but really, Alex? I thought I've told you to read up on our government."

Alex's eyes get big and innocent, though I can see straight through his faςade. "I'm sorry, Tulip, I've had a lot of homework lately," he breaks into a cheeky smile, "'Sides, in the little freetime I do have, I choose not to spend it boring the shit out of myself reading about the government." Tulip rolls her eyes, not taking Alex's bait.

"Right," she continues, "Menna Rawlings is the British Commissioner to Australia. She was recently in a meeting with Afghan leaders in Australia, concerned about possible terrorism threats. One of the bodyguards for the president turned out to have strong ties to the Taliban, unfortunately for Rawlings. After the meeting was concluded, she was promptly kidnapped, and smuggled into Kabul. The Taliban has been torturing her for information, and presumably plans to murder her. We need you two to get her back before it's too late."

"Of course," I say automatically. I will do anything for my country, even though Helen explicitly told me to stay safe. I love her and usually try my best to take her advice, but right now, my country is more important than her goodbye plea.

For some unfathomable reason, my son doesn't share my sentiments. I truly can't imagine why: England is the greatest bloody country in the world, and I honestly can't understand why someone wouldn't want to risk their life for her. It's what Ian and I always did. That's how we were raised: to put queen and country first. "No, Tulip, I have better things to do, like not getting killed. 'Sides, I promised Jack I'd stay away from you psychopaths." Who the hell is Jack?

"Who the hell is Jack?" I voice my question. However, it remains ignored by my present company. Meanwhile, Alex and Tulip are staring each other down. After about a minute, it's Alex who finally breaks his focus.

"You brought Hunter all the way back from Hell just to get me to go on a mission?" he exclaims, "Fuck you, Tulip, that's cold. And it's not going to work. Why would I go on a life-threatening mission with some prick I don't even know? Didn't it run through your mind that, as much as I'd glorified Hunter and wanted to know more about him, I never really felt any desire to actually meet him? My mum, I'd love to meet, but these goddamn spies are all the bloody same. They're annoyingly fucking patriotic and have a God-Complex bigger than my will to live!"

Alex's rant phases me. I am so far behind, that I cannot even begin to comprehend what he's just said. However, it's abundantly clear that he hates me, and doesn't want to be anywhere near me, which does hurt, to be honest.

Tulip sighs, admitting defeat. "I guess I hadn't really thought about how different you two really are," she considers, "I guess it was wrong of me to do this without consulting you first." Alex's eyes grew almost-impossibly wide.

"Excuse me," Alex mutters, racing out of the room. He and and Tulip have been incredibly unhelpful in answering my questions and filling me in, and I have never in my life been more confused. Hell, the inner workings of Scorpia were more sensical than this conversation. I turn to to face the latter, who currently has her head in her hands. I open my mouth to say something, but I am greeted only with a deep sigh and a 'not now, Agent Rider.'

* * *

Alex returns, about fifteen minutes later, with a strange, furry object in his hand. Upon closer observation, it turns out to be a brown teddy bear. "So, Mrs. Jones," Alex says, more formal than I've ever heard him speak before, "I visited my old friend Smithers, and had him special make me this bear." He sits the bear on the desk in front of her, and makes a very dramatic show of pressing down on it's right paw.

"It was wrong of me," the bear admits, in Tulips voice, "It was wrong of me, it was wrong of me, it was wrong of me," the bear repeats, sending my son into peals of laughter.

Finally, between long spurts of loud cackles, he was able to form a coherent sentence. "I couldn't believe my luck, when the head of MI6 admitted that she was wrong. I had wished that this room was bugged, so I could get it on tape, and luckily I know just the guy! I went downstairs and visited Smithers, who had the recordings from the microphones, and he put the recording into this lovely bear for me!" Alex is wearing the biggest shit-eating grin I've ever seen. He is clearly enjoying himself.

Tulip says nothing. She simply opens her top desk drawer, unscrews a bottle of aspirin, and dry swallows a couple. "Wow, Tulip," Alex says incredulously, "Four aspirin? That's a new record."

She sighs and pops a fifth, much to my son's awe. "Alex, get out of my office," Tulip says, closing her eyes.

He stands up to go, but is interrupted by a knock at the door. "Come in," Tulip sighs, lifting her opening her eyes again in an attempt to look human.

A burly looking man with dark skin and hair comes in and hands Tulip a large manila envelope labeled 'TOP SECRET.' He bows his head and acknowledges her with a very polite "Mrs. Jones," before leaving again and closing the door behind him.

She sighs once again after examining its contents and swallows two more aspirin.

"Tulip," Alex says, his eyes as wide as frisbees, "Isn't that quite enough? No headache is that bad."

"No headache, but yourself, Alex. Care to explain why you came in like this?"

"Cunning and charismatic?" He asks innocently.

She sighs again. I'm really confused about what the hell Alex did. "No, you brat, why you came in with dirty clothes and singed bangs. Don't think I didn't notice, Mister."

"Oh. That's a long, short story," a heartbeat passes, "My clothes were a mess because I had to dive out of the tube. I almost missed my stop and had to dive out of the tube. I landed on the floor, and my clothes got mussed up. It was an accident, really." His eyes grew big and innocent again.

"How did diving out of a train set your hair on fire, Son?" I ask, prying for details that he was clearly keeping to himself.

"Oh, that happened yesterday. Tom-he's my best mate, Hunter-was fucking around with a lighter and accidentally caught my hair." His story seems valid enough, but something inside me knows he was lying. I am about to call him out on his bullshit, but Tulip once again beats me to it.

"Funny how that happens, Alex. I guess that means you don't know anything about an exploding car on Winchester Street?"

"No, ma'am," he shakes his head quickly.

"Really, Alex? Because I have some pictures that would say otherwise," she challenges, pulling out a stack of images and handing them to my son. They start out with Alex and a taller boy walking out of a tube station, and follow through the two of them moving cars out of the way of another car, in which they exploded. One of the images does indeed show Alex's bangs getting singed. The last picture is of the two in front of the Royal and General Bank. "Who the hell was that, Alex? And what the hell did you do?"

"Well. I met that teenager, let's call him Alan Blunt, at the tube station. He helped me up after I dived out of the train, right? Anyway, he needed my help, so I followed him."

"He needed your help blowing up a car," Tulip demands, "And you said yes?"

"It was the polite thing to do!" Alex protests, shaking with invisible laughter.

"That's it, Alex, you're going on this mission with your father. You need to learn that destroying private property is not allowed."

"Unless it's on a suicide mission," he stage whispers.

Tulip sighs again, unable to show any other emotion. She's clearly exhausted from Alex's antics. "Besides what I've already told you, gentlemen," she begins, addressing the both of us, "We don't know much else. Most of Kabul is under Taliban influence, so she honestly could be anywhere. You two need to find her and bring her back to England, preferably all in one piece, because it will be my headache if anything goes wrong."

"Yeah, and you've already taken all your aspirin," Alex adds unhelpfully.

"Leave." The single word is packed with so much venom that I have to repress a shudder, and Alex and I get up and leave immediately.

* * *

Once we are out on the street, I ask Alex a question that's been on my mind for awhile now: "So, Alex, where's Ian? Does he still live in Chelsea, or has he moved?"

He freezes for a second. The hesitation is so minute that even I barely notice it. "Um," Alex starts, "He's still in Chelsea, but he's moved to a different location."

"Show me?" I ask. Alex nods, and we begin walking. I miss Ian. It's been forever since the last time I've seen him, and I really need to thank him for the whole raising-my-child thing. Not that he did a great job or anything…

I am kind of surprised that he moved; Ian loved his Chelsea home. It was close enough to Stamford Bridge to catch a Chelsea game on Saturday afternoons, and just far enough from the bank to be its own separate reality from MI6.

Alex leads me into the nearest tube station, and just under an hour later, we emerge on West Brompton Road, in Chelsea. We turn right onto Fulham Road, and stumble upon the Brompton Cemetery. This confuses me. Why the hell would Alex take me to a cemetery? Is my little brother dead? The thought wrenches at my heart. Alex walks into the cemetery and refuses to take a map. It's clear he knows his way around, which doesn't settle my concerns about Ian at all. I feel sick to my stomach as we walk past a funeral. Tens of people are standing around a casket being lowered into the ground. The motion of the casket dropping reminds me how my stomach is dropping further into my legs with each step I take. At this point, the logical, MI6 part of my brain knows for a fact that Ian is dead. However, the emotional part of me, which I'd assumed was gone, was convincing me otherwise. It is an emotional civil war. The seven minute walk to Ian's grave felt like seven hours.

"Well," Alex says awkwardly, shifting his weight, "Here's Ian."

He gestures towards a square slab of gray marble. It has Ian's birthday carved into it, as well as his supposed date of death: late March of two years ago. Below the date there is a single sentence: A GOOD MAN TAKEN BEFORE HIS TIME. I don't disagree with this: Ian was a good man. However, the problem with being a spy is that no one can truly know how 'good' of a person you are. So much of it is sensitive and classified, and before you know it, your entire life is just a red stamp reading 'TOP SECRET.' It kills me that they've condensed a bloody great patriot like Ian into one bland, nondescript sentence. I know it's for the best, but damn, does it hurt.

"So," I question Alex, "Um, how exactly did he die?"

"Car crash," Alex says somberly, "T'wasn't wearing his seatbelt."

"Bullshit," I laugh inappropriately, "Ian was the most anal person I've ever met. He wouldn't even start the bloody car until everyone was wearing their seatbelts."

Alex's big brown eyes sparkle. For the first time today, he actually looks happy. Even though we are talking about his dead uncle, I can tell that he enjoys discussing the man. I'm glad that Alex has fond memories of Ian. He truly was a great guy. "Oh my god, he really was! Once he insisted on driving me to my friend Beto's house-Beto lived three houses up the street, mind you-and when I refused to put my seatbelt on, he lectured my for a solid twenty minutes. I could have walked to his house in about a tenth of that! Anyways, Ian made me late, and Beto and I were watching the Chelsea versus Everton match, and I missed three goals!" Alex pauses for a second, catching his breath, and reigning in his emotion. "Yeah, he was a good guy though. Um," Alex begins, for my benefit, "He died on the job. I really don't like discussing it because it just reminds me of all the lies he's ever told me…" he drifts off.

"So," I say, trying to continue this moment. It feels good to laugh with my son, and I don't want to end it by discussing his childhood, "After Ian died, who looked after you? You were what, barely fourteen when it happened?"

Alex cracks another genuine smile. "C'mon, Hunter, I'll show you!"

* * *

We arrive in front of Ian's old house. We had quite a few good times there, my brother and I, and the sight of the house is making me feel really goddamn nostalgic. Alex knocks on the door, and a couple seconds later a young woman opens the door. She is of average height, has light eyes, and bright red hair. She pulls Alex in for a hug, who returns the gesture. "Alex, you're alive," she says dramatically in an American accent. I can't exactly place it; but it sounds metropolitan, as though she is from a big city.

"Of course I am, Jack, it's not Jones you have to worry about hurting me," Alex chuckles. I wonder what he means by this.

"Who's this?" The American, who now has a name, questions.

"Oh, right. Jack, meet my dad. Hunter, this is Jack. She's the one who has looked after me since Ian died." Alex is grinning again. It's different than his usual shit-eating grin when he's done something mischievous. He seems truly happy around this woman, and I'm glad. Four hours ago, I didn't even know my son, but for whatever reason, it makes my heart swell that he is feeling this delighted.

"Hello, Hunter," Jack greets me with a smile. She reaches her hand out, and I shake it. It's a light, casual handshake, "It's great to finally meet you after dealing with this brat," she gestures at Alex, "for the past nine years."

Alex rolls his eyes playfully. "Oh, but what would you do without me, Jack?"

"Well, for starters, the house would be a whole lot cleaner. Y'know, it was a lot cuter when you 'accidentally' set appliances on fire when you were seven," she shakes her head and laughs, "Honestly, Alex, the sheer amount of chaos that one teenager can cause is astounding."

My god, is there anything this child doesn't destroy? I look over at Alex, but he just shrugs. "Yeah, she has a point. I'm quite good at destroying things," he admits with a smirk, "it's a talent, really. I mean, if blowing things up were an Olympic sport-"

"So, Hunter, why don't you come inside?" Jack asks, interrupting Alex, "I've just made lunch."

I nod, accepting her offer. "Thank you. Oh, and it's uh John, not Hunter," I clarify.

She smiles. "No problem. John, it is then."

After lunch, Alex shows me around Ian's old house. It's actually pretty similar to what it used to look like, minus Alex and Jack's rooms. Ian never was one for change. It hurts, though, to be in this house without my brother. God, I miss him.

* * *

Later on, after Jack had gone to bed, Alex and I begin discussing the mission.

"We have almost no information," Alex points out, "And not enough time to get it. What we need is someone who already has eyes on the inside. I could-"

"I know just the place," I assure him. I don't know what Alex was about to suggest, but surely even my dated connections are better than whatever the hell ones he has. I mean, the kid's sixteen! How would he know where to get this kind of info?

We take the tube again, this time to Soho. It isn't too late, luckily, it is just after 11p.m. I'm glad that Jack went to bed early, so she wasn't awake to question where Alex was going. That was one conversation that I could live without having. 'Yes, Jack,' I imagine myself saying, 'I'm just taking the teenager that you are in charge of and taking him to a seedy pub to get information on the whereabouts of an old Scorpia colleague who is probably dead.' I chuckle to myself. I can just imagine how poorly that would go, though I could honestly see Alex being able to talk himself out of any situation. He's a clever little prick. Charming, too.

* * *

We walk for a couple blocks in silence. Six minutes later, we are standing outside of a pub called Charlie's. It's pretty seedy, but it's where Ian and I would always go to get information all those years ago. What Ian and I learned about Charlie's, is that anything you'll ever need to know is known by somebody there. You just need to pay the right price.

"What're we doing here, Hunter?" Alex questions.

"We're getting information on a man called Cossack. He's an old Scorpia connection of mine. Also, Alex, don't use the name 'Hunter' in there. I was always known as Cathcart."

He nods. "Got it, Cathcart," he pauses, and looks really uncomfortable. Finally, he opens his mouth to speak again, even though he obviously doesn't want to: "Just so you know, Hunter, Scorpia doesn't exist anymore. They, uh, disbanded about a year-and-a-half ago. I don't know the specifics, y'know, the hows and whys, I just know that Scorpia doesn't exist anymore." This is news to me. I'm surprised, really. If I couldn't disband them, who the hell did? And how the hell does Alex know about it?

I nod my head. I can ask Jones about the specifics later. "Just so you know, Alex," I warn him, "This place is dangerous. I want you to stay out here, so you're safe."

"Excuse me?" he exclaims, "No. I didn't wait all these years for my dad to come, just so he could leave me outside of a bar the first chance he gets! I'm going inside." Alex has a point, but he also has no experience with less-than-posh places like this one. I voice these concerns to him. "Really, Hunter? You haven't seen me since I was a baby. How the fuck would you know what I haven't done?" Again, Alex has a point. I sigh. I have no legitimate excuse to ban him from the pub, just a premonition, and from my experience, my premonitions are basically fact. I have way more experience than this kid, and I can almost smell the shit that's about to go down. However, as much experience as I have, I also have zero control over Alex. I can't play the 'dad-card.' I can't do anything about this.

"Fine," I sigh, "But follow my lead. You don't know what the hell you're doing." Alex rolls his eyes. Stupid teenagers.

* * *

We walk in to Charlie's right in the middle of a fight. Typical. Charlie's is just your average hole-in-the-wall pub. Until you walk downstairs. You need a membership to get in, and you can only acquire a membership if you have the approval from five other members. Which can cost quite a bit of money and/or favours. All of the members' names are on a master list, and members can each bring one guest. Most members bring girls as their guests; very rarely do they bring their teenage sons. During the Cold War, Charlie's was insane. People were murdered there almost daily, and information changed hands hands faster than pints of beer. I can assume that it's calmed down, though who knows? It is Charlie's after all.

Luckily for Alex and I, members remain on the list, even posthumously, as many of us have to fake our deaths at some point or another. We are admitted downstairs without too much trouble, but our luck changes once we arrive.

Just like in all the old westerns, the entire pub goes silent when we are seen. Even the fight goes silent. In the middle of the one-room basement, there is a shoddy boxing ring. On the wall left of the entrance, there are bleacher-like seats facing the ring. On the walls to the right of, and facing of the entrance there are two walls lined with alcohol, and a long, L-shaped table littered with peanuts shells and pints of beer. About three dozen bar stools line the table, and about half of them are filled. In total, including the people at the bar, on the bleachers, and fighting, there are about seventy people. And all 140 eyes are on Alex and I. Well, maybe not 140, as this is Charlie's and even Charlie, himself, as well as a handful of others, wear an eyepatch. It's a crazy world, and it's not always easy to keep both your goddamn eyes.

"Wow," Alex remarks, referencing the staring, "I didn't realize I was this pretty." My brain stops for a second, as this was almost my exact line when I first stepped into Charlie's all those years ago. Deja vu aside, I jab my elbow into his stomach, and tell him to shut up.

Everyone ignored Alex's comment, thankfully. I look out over the still silent crowd, and realize that I actually recognize about half of the members. It's not entirely surprising, as Charlie's was at its peak in the Cold War, many of the old members refuse to admit new ones, and I did spend a lot of time here with Ian back in the day.

"Cathcart, as I live and breathe," Charlie, the owner of this fine establishment, sighs incredulously. He's fatter and greyer than I remember, but he's still the same old Cold-War-Charlie, with his pale, splotchy skin; a long, choppy beard; a black eyepatch; dirty clothes that barely fit him; and a cigarette in his mouth. He has black jeans and a faded white shirt on.

"Good to be back, Charlie," I remark, walking over and shaking his hand. Alex stays put, standing more confidently that I had previously expected. It's strange, but he almost looks at home? I don't know. He's kind of a weird kid, to be completely honest.

"Where the hell have ya been, Mate?" Charlie questions, "S'been awhile. And who've ya got here?" He points over at Alex.

"He's crawled out of the depths of hell," Alex elucidates, "And you can call me Yossarian."

"What the hell kind of name is Yossarian?" Charlie demands.

"It's my name, sir," Alex clarifies.

"Yes, I suppose it is," Charlie gives in. Addressing the entire bar, he says "They're alright, men." After Charlie's conformation, conversations pick up, the fight resumes, Charlie goes over to another member, and Alex and I ignored once again.

"Okay, Yossarian, you stay here," I address my son, gesturing at an empty, isolated stool. "Don't fucking do anything. Don't talk to anyone, don't drink anything, don't pick any fights, don't ask anybody their business. Just don't fucking move, okay, Kid?" The absolute last thing I need is to save Alex from getting into any trouble.

"Got it, Mum," Alex salutes me, mockingly. I want to smack him in the side of the head, but more than that, I don't want to start a scene.

Rolling my eyes, I walk over to an old contact of mine to discuss the whereabouts of my old Scorpia partner. The contact is far from moral, and always knew way more about Scorpia than anyone else was ever comfortable with, back in the day.

* * *

Not ninety seconds later, I hear my son yelling, the little prick: "You can't just do that! Human trafficking is not okay!" Alex roars. The entire room, including the fight, goes silent again, save for their little scuffle.

My head whips around. Alex is standing face-to-face with a young man whom I don't recognize. While I don't know his face, I do know that he towers over Alex by a good 6-inches and outweighs him easily by 100 pounds of muscle.

"Excuse me, Kid?" The man asks. If Alex has any intuition, he'd keep his fucking mouth shut.

"I said human trafficking is a human rights violation! Though, with you ego clouding up your ears, I wouldn't've expected you to hear, anyways." This kid is officially suicidal. He's loud, brash, and clearly can't read a fucking room.

"Yossarian!" I hiss, trying to deter the fool from getting himself killed, but he ignores me.

"That crazy bastard," Charlie remarks, giving a low whistle.

"That crazy bastard indeed," I admit, "Who is that guy, anyway?'

"Maurice," Charlie explains, "He's a mercenary." I nod.

"You're making a mistake, kid," The now-named Maurice warns.

"This piece of shit," Alex announces to the entire bar, "Buys and fucking sells people, and I'm the one making a mistake?" Maurice, clearly pissed off, takes a punch at Alex's head, but he easily steps left and dodges it. The dodge was pretty impressive, as Alex would have been knocked-out cold, had he stayed in the line of fire.

Before Maurice realizes what was happening, Alex does a roundhouse kick straight into his kneecap, causing him to stoop over in pain. "Listen here, ya little cunt!" Maurice announces, pulling a gun on Alex. The entire bar is frozen; nobody knows what is going to happen next. I can't speak for everyone, but I was almost one hundred percent sure that I'd be explaining to Jack Starbright why the fuck Alex ended up with a bullet in his head. Then, the impossible happens. I thought for sure that Alex would stand there like a stupid kid, mouth off to Maurice, and then get his brains blown out. However, my son very unexpectedly kicked the gun straight out of Maurice's hand. It falls to the floor, and Alex quickly dives over a scoops it up. Time freezes once again when Alex has Maurice in a head-lock, three seconds later, and has the gun shoved into his mouth. The entire bar is stupefied. No one realized how badly we had all underestimated Alex until it was too fucking late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We stan bad bitch Alex, who stands up for human trafficking victims! (Also, this is so fucking typical of him to be pissed at MI6 for sending him on missions, and then getting into a fight based off of his loosely-defined morals)
> 
> S/O to my boy A.A. for Alex inspiration. This fool used "It's a long, short story" as an excuse to our coach once, and I'm cackling now, just thinking about it.
> 
> So many literary allusions in this chapter!
> 
> (1)An allusion to The Things They Carried. Please read this book. It'll rip your heart out and stomp on it, but please read it.
> 
> The guy Alex fought, Maurice, is named after the guy from The Catcher in the Rye. Not the best character(he's a pimp; take that as you will), but it's a damn good book.
> 
> Haha, I just had to take the names Cathcart and Yossarian from Catch-22 (And there are so many Catch-22 allusions in this chapter...this book is taking over my life lolol). Colonel Cathcart and John Rider; and Yossarian and Alex aren't that different, afterall. I mean honestly, John and Cathcart are arrogant pricks with patriotism running through their veins, and both Alex and Yossarian are manipulated by their respective governments to go on suicide missions. They are both ironically good at what they do. They both deal with that trauma through being sarcastic pieces of shit, but both have a strange charisma and people can't help but like them. I feel like Alex would see the similarities between the two of them, and that's why he chose to be Yossarian. That's just my opinion/literary analysis, but lmk if you want to talk AR and Catch-22 with me! (I'll actually analyze/debate any literature with you, just hit me up!)
> 
> Now that I'm done promoting other people's very famous literature, allow me to promote my own not-very-famous literature: Be very ready for a spinoff fic (probably a one-shot) fic about Charlie's during the Cold War Days.
> 
> Also, this will likely be the last chapter for awhile(probably the summer because SCHOOL)
> 
> This was a long-ass authors note haha but please! review!


	6. Ice Cream and Introspection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Just like Hunter I've risen from the depths of hell to write a chapter.
> 
> I've really missed everyone, but I've been insanely busy between school, competitions, and college apps lately, so unfortunately I haven't had any time to write :/

_Chapter 5: Ice Cream and Introspection_

 

**LOCATION: LONDON, ENGLAND**

 

“You are going to let them go,” Alex says, in reference to the three girls that Maurice had brought to Charlie’s ‘for sale.’ His voice is low, deep, and utterly smooth. He radiates with confidence, and it scares the hell out of me, as he appears to be in his most comfortable, most natural state, “Or I will blow your fucking brains out.” Maurice nods, and waves at the girls. Tightening his grip on Maurice’s neck and turning the gun so it points at me, Alex hisses “Cathcart. Make sure these women get to the nearest hospital safely. I’ll meet you at home.” 

 

I open my mouth to protest. “But, Yos---” I begin.

 

“You heard me, Cathcart, I’ll _meet you at home_.” His voice is low and icy, and each syllable drips with poison. He sounds straight off of fucking Malagosto with that tone. I nod, scared into compliance.

* * *

Two hours later, after I dropped the women off at the University Hospital, I arrive at Ian’s house. Every room is dark, save for the kitchen. At one of the barstools, Alex is sitting down, and eating a bowl of ice cream. It’s a strange juxtaposition: the ice cream in a pink bowl chock-full of rainbow sprinkles, and the dried blood covering Alex’s face and body. There’s a fresh bandage wrapped around his head. He’s shirtless, wearing only a tattered version of the jeans he had worn earlier. His bare chest is pasty and reveals a lot, including an array of fresh bruises, and right over his heart, a healed bullet wound. My eyes bug out of my head, but I no longer have the energy to surprised by my son.

 

“‘Ello, Hunter,” he greets me with a mouthful of ice cream. Dear Lord, did Ian teach this kid anything?

 

“Hey, Alex,” I sigh, still attempting to comprehend the scene in front of me. Because I have nothing else to say, I point out that he’s bleeding from his mouth. My eyes are also drawn to a manila folder on the chair next to Alex, with ‘Hunter’ scrawled onto the front in neat handwriting, identical to my own.

 

“I know,” Alex nods, “Hence the ice cream. Maurice got my good in the jaw, and the cold helps.” I nod, looking over at his pained jaw. There will be one hell of a bruise in the morning, the poor kid.

 

“So,” I begin, addressing the elephant in the room, “What the hell was that?”

 

“What the hell was what?” He asks innocently, spooning more ice cream into his mouth. There is now an orange sprinkle on his cheek, and it’s nearly impossible to take the kid seriously.

 

“What the hell do you think?” I demand.

 

“Hunter, I’m too tired to play your stupid games. What do you want?” He yawns, stirring the remaining ice cream, most of it soupy and melted now.

 

I sigh, knowing I am never going to win this. “What in the hell happened at Charlie’s tonight, Alex?”

 

“Well, I was just calling out injustices as I saw them,” he shrugs nonchalantly.

 

“I mean where did you learn to fight like that? That was insane. How did you even think to do that?”

 

“Well,” my son said cryptically, standing up and putting his bowl and spoon in the dishwasher, “Ian Rider was good for something.” 

 

I look at him with confusion. “What--” I begin. I have no idea what the hell is going on. I’m not used to feeling this utterly lost and in the dark.

 

He shrugs and yawns again. “I’ll tell you when you’re older,” he says emotionlessly. He fishes something out of his tattered pocket. “I found your man,” he informs me, tossing a slightly crumpled piece of paper onto the table, “Though we may have to give him something he wants before paying him a visit in Iceland.” I look from Alex, to the paper, to Alex again, dumbfounded. “Anyways, Hunter, I’m going to bed. Sleep in Ian’s room if you like.” 

 

And with that, Alex is gone. I sit at the table and immediately begin studying the paper that Alex had somehow gotten someone with unrecognizable, though very neat handwriting to explain the whereabouts of Cossack. I reach over and open the manila folder, which was still innocently sitting on the chair across from me. I am astonished when I realize what’s inside. There are two plane tickets to Miami, Florida due to take off tomorrow at 3pm, both with fake names. To accompany them, there are two fake British passports as well for my son and I. Lastly, there is a very detailed plan to steal nearly half a tonne of cocaine. At this point, I am more impressed by the sheer amount that my son accomplished in two short hours. I realized again that I underestimated the shit out of him. He’s only 16, but can do one hell of a lot more than I ever thought he could. As flighty and as nonchalant as he acts, he’s incredibly intelligent, and he likely puts up a strong facade. THe kid would make a damn good spy, if ever he got his shit together for long enough to be serious. Upon reading the plan again, I sigh and go to bed. It’s nearly four in the morning, and it’s been an incredibly long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a very short chapter, but I really wanted the second half to be in Alex's POV, and I had two damn good chapter names for chapters 5 and 6, so naturally I had to split it. 
> 
> No idea when chapter 6 will be posted. Likely either very soon, or a year from now, so who the heck knows. Chapter 7 has been written for months now, and I'm so excited for y'all to read it, but we have to get through some more Alex and Hunter drama before lol. 
> 
> For those of you reading I Spy, I have not abandoned you, I promise! I have a couple of (unfortunately) conflicting ideas about how to develop Ella's character, so I just need time to think them through.
> 
> Let me know how you're liking this so far!


End file.
